Re: Webster's: Holly & Elijah
Elijah lived off the beaten track. The house was a house. It was big enough, could pass through it without meeting a single soul and call it empty, with a half dozen other people inside. Every single one of those people needed and made no apology for it. They were there for the house, for what they believed was in it. Need was raw, palpable. It didn't leave room for 'what music do you like' and 'which book was your favorite?' Wasn't a lot of that, in the house.
Could look for algorithms to predict what next. Had lists, long as they got of things to read next based on algorithms but algorithms told a story based on data. People were random. They liked things because of memories, or because of positive association. They liked them because it wasn't a genre or a data point but because they liked what they liked. Elijah didn't want what he already knew. Already knew that. Liked it enough to keep it lining the walls or the shelves. Wanted someone else's taste, if that wasn't apparent. Instead of conversations, unspooling like a skein of yarn over days and weeks and months. Didn't have that, so the yearning, sharp and silvery and pointed sliced away at the next best thing.
"Not tried Stan Kenton. All of them? All of them." Had money. Enough to keep him in books and music. Spoken word, he hadn't tried. Elijah latched onto new, the twist of his head toward the wall indicated by the direction of Holly's gaze. "Spoken word. So poetry?" It was a definite question. Thrown in Holly's direction.
"Right." Had a moment of realization. His hands were outstretched. Clean-backed, clean nails. Scrubbed them clear in the cold stream of water every night. Had a silly thought each time about surgeons, about the art of cleaning away every crevice and every cranny. Scrubbed until his skin was pink-raw. But the guy was behind the counter. Elijah looked at his own palms, fraction-smiled in Holly's direction.